


Shades

by aftereighteen



Category: Swimming RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 18:44:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aftereighteen/pseuds/aftereighteen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>inspired by Michael's panicky tweet that he's found a grey hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shades

Michael cringes as he composes the text. There are so many reasons he doesn’t want to send it, but he’s freaking out and not sure what else to do. He’s already tweeted about it – and had an alarming number of retweets – so he figures most of the world already knows his plight.

_[MP 09:57 – where r u?]_

The reply takes several hours, by which time Michael’s going even crazier. To make matters worse, the reply is far from what he hoped for.

_[Reezy 13:26 – Gville go gators jeah!]_

Michael swears loudly and throws his phone down on the couch. His phone buzzes with another text.

_[Reezy 13:28 – Sry MP, no time 4 fone sex]_

_[MP 13:31 – Didn’t want it]_

_[Reezy 13:34 – Lol pull the other 1 MP. It’s got bells on]_

_[MP 13:36 – Ur funny.]_

_[Reezy 13:39 – I am, thx. Wat u doin 2mo?]_

That’s more like it, Michael thinks.

_[MP 13:42 – Sendin Conor 2 pick u up @ BWI]_

_[Reezy 13:45 – lazy fucker]_

_[MP 13:47 – U’ll c y wen u get here]_

*

Ryan spends the best part of 24 hours trying to decode Michael’s most recent text. At first, he thinks nothing of it – other than to assume Michael will be waiting naked for him – and carries on about his business. It’s only when he doesn’t hear from Michael again – because these sorts of messages arrive often, and are usually followed by a flurry of teasing sexts – that he pulls his phone out, frowns at the screen and panics.

His brain assumes that there’s been some sort of disastrous incident, that Michael can’t leave the house because he’s horribly disfigured, or is physically unable to move having slipped on an empty Snickers wrapper whilst chasing a dog. But then, Ryan reasons, surely he’d have heard about it some other way?

When Conor duly picks him up at the airport, Ryan’s first question isn’t, “How are you?” or even, “How’s training?” but, “What’s wrong with MP?”

He gets an eye roll followed by a shrug in return – Conor is a man of few words – and the stereo is turned up. Ryan sighs frustratedly and stares out of the window for the duration of the ride to Michael’s. Conor hasn’t even put the car in park before Ryan leaps out and runs up the steps to Michael’s apartment two at a time, ringing the entry buzzer frantically.

Before Michael can answer, Conor ambles up behind him, rolling his eyes again and produces his keys. “He should just fucking give you some,” Conor mutters, opening the door for Ryan and abruptly turning on his heel and disappearing again, clearly keen to give Michael and Ryan some space.

“Mike?” Ryan calls out, door slamming behind him. The only response is Herman and Stella barrelling towards him. Ryan stoops to pet them quickly and wishes Michael had trained his dogs better – Carter would lead anyone entering his house straight to his master. These two will just amble around hoping for food.

Sure enough, Ryan has to traipse through the entire place, dogs at his heels, before he finds Michael in the bathroom. The younger man is leaning against the counter, peering intently at his reflection. Ryan clears his throat when it becomes apparent that Michael hasn’t realised he’s arrived.

Michael glances back at Ryan through the mirror. “Hey,” he says distractedly. And that’s when Ryan starts to get pissed off.

“Hey?” he asks. “I get a cryptic text and a passive-aggressive demand for my presence and Conor as my chauffeur and all I get in response is a ‘hey’?”

“I can’t go out like this, Ryan,” Michael replies mournfully.

Ryan takes in Michael’s fairly-standard unkempt appearance, which today includes low-riding sweatpants and a zip up hoodie which he’s pretty sure has nothing under it. “But most of the time you do anyway,” Ryan states, folding his arms across his chest. “You don’t normally worry about scrubbing up for me. You only shave when your agent forces you to because you’re scaring kids. What gives?”

When Michael turns towards him, Ryan spots a variety of boxes beside Michael’s laptop on the counter and laughs. “Fuck yes,” he crows. “Payback’s gonna be a bitch, baby!”

“This is exactly why I didn’t want you here!” Michael yells defensively.

“So why did you ask me to come then?” Ryan asks, holding his sides as they already hurt from laughing.

“Because... I thought you might want to help. So that I don’t fuck this up by myself.”

Ryan snorts. “And what would I know about hair dye? I’m older than you, but apparently you’re the one who looks it. Where is it, anyway? Lemme see,” Ryan pushes, stepping closer.

Michael backs off, pulling the hood on his sweatshirt up and turning away. “No,” he mumbles.

“How am I supposed to help if you won’t show me?” Ryan reasons.

“I don’t need you to examine it, I already know what’s happening,” Michael tells him. “I just need you to tell me which shade I am.”

“You can’t find it, can you?” Ryan asks, amused. “You found one, panicked and then couldn’t find it again. Or... you didn’t pluck it, did you?”

Michael turns to scowl at Ryan quickly. “No I did not. Do I look stupid?”

“You want me to answer that?” Ryan counters, laughing again.

“Just tell me which one or fuck off,” Michael grumbles, gesturing to the array of boxes on the counter. 

Curiosity gets the better of Ryan – and, hey, he might be in this boat one day – and he peers at the selection. It’s definitely the result of a panic buy: Michael seems to have swept the entire men’s hair dye range into a basket at the drugstore, given that he’s included the “sandy blond” and “jet black” ends of the spectrum. Ryan would like to think that, even in a state of unguided panic, Michael could recognise that he isn’t blond. But what really intrigues Ryan is that there’s one very specific box of women’s hair dye in the mix too.

Ryan picks it up and turns it around in his hands. It appears to be unused, so he knows that the question he’s about to ask is probably unnecessary. “One of your crazy exes leave this behind or...?”

“Bought it yesterday,” Michael admits quietly.

“And you claim to not know which guy colour you are, but know exactly which girl colour you are?” Ryan asks sceptically.

Michael blushes furiously and snatches the box from Ryan. “Just... which do you think?”

“None of them,” Ryan states bluntly.

“Okay, so there must be a way to mix...” Michael’s cut off by Ryan.

“No,” Ryan cuts in firmly, standing next to Michael and looking at him in the mirror. “I mean, you don’t need to do this.”

“Dude!” Michael’s exasperated now. “I get that this is hilarious for you, but you wouldn’t be laughing if this were the other way around. Are you going to help or not?”

“Yeah, I’ll help,” Ryan nods. He promptly scoops the boxes off the counter and drops them in the trash.

Michael switches gears from frustrated to angry, leaning over and starting to retrieve the boxes from the garbage. “Not helping,” he growls.

Ryan sighs and digs through his pockets for his phone, setting it on the counter when he finds it. He grabs Michael’s and uses it to dial his own number. Michael looks up when he hears the ringing and looks from Ryan to the phone in confusion.

“Just look at it,” Ryan encourages, indicating his phone.

“It’s a phone, Ryan, I’ve seen plenty before,” Michael rolls his eyes, still pulling boxes out of the garbage. Ryan remains unmoved and stares Michael down pointedly until the younger man gives in and does as Ryan asks.

When he does, Michael’s confronted by a picture of himself, taken on a shoot the previous year. As is fairly common for himself and Ryan, Michael’s waist-deep in water for the shot. Less standard is his outfit: rather than a swimsuit, he’s wearing a tailored suit. And a very nice watch.

The phone stops ringing, the screen goes dark and they both remain quiet for a moment. “What’s your point?” Michael asks softly.

“That’s what I want to see when you call me,” Ryan tells him.

“Clearly,” Michael rolls his eyes. He’s slightly relieved it’s not the dick picture he reluctantly sent Ryan a while ago – much as he’s proud of his dick, he’s glad that whoever is near Ryan doesn’t get to see it when his phone rings – but still doesn’t understand the significance.

“People went nuts for your hair in that shoot, man,” Ryan tells him. “And I was one of ‘em. Even though it kinda looks awful, because whoever did it put a ton of crap in it. But they also made you look like a fucking silver fox. You never notice?”

“Uhhh...”

“No? Okay. Well, I’ll let you in on a secret,” Ryan offers. “You with grey hair? Going to be totally hot. Something to worry about? Not today.”

“Yeah it is!” Michael leans back over to peer in the mirror, determined to find evidence to support his claim.

Ryan shakes his head insistently. “You don’t know what it’s like,” Michael grumbles, turning his attention to his laptop briefly before glancing back at his reflection. 

Ryan rolls his eyes. “Of course I don’t. I’m not in the public eye at all, and people never criticise me.” He follows Michael’s gaze down to the computer screen, curious as to what the younger man is referring to. Naturally, it’s the website of the men’s hair dye company. Ryan groans and closes the lid of the laptop, preparing himself to try a different line of attack.

“Babe,” he cajoles, stepping up behind Michael and meeting his gaze in the mirror. Ryan pulls Michael’s hood down, ignoring the fact that Mike flinches as he does so. Ryan leans in and nuzzles his way up Michael’s neck, kissing softly as he goes. “Don’t use this as an excuse to make me tell you how hot you are,” Ryan murmurs. “I don’t need excuses.”

Michael grunts disapprovingly, but relaxes a little under Ryan’s touch. Ryan plants his hands on Michael’s hips, moving them around and up his body, finding the zipper on his hoodie and slowly tugging it down. “Hey,” Ryan muses aloud, brain and mouth disengaged, “does this mean that if your beard goes grey you’ll hate it and start shaving every day?”

Michael elbows Ryan in the ribs angrily and reaches out to grab the nearest box of dye. He rips it open before Ryan can even speak and wields the special comb threateningly. Ryan holds his hands up in panic. “MP, I’m sorry!” Ryan falters. “C’mon... don’t tell me you can’t see the funny side!”

“Would you be laughing?” Michael thunders. They both already know the answer to that.

“Would you want me here if I were actually keen to help you?” Ryan blurts out.

Michael stops and thinks. After a few moments, he puts the comb down and turns towards Ryan. “You really think I’ll be a silver fox?”

Ryan nods enthusiastically, reaching out for Michael. “Hell yes.”

Michael steps into Ryan’s arms, leaning his head against the older man’s shoulder. “You won’t trade me in for a younger model?” Michael mumbles sadly.

Ryan snorts. “And have to train up another virgin?” the comment earns him a pinch to the waist. “Fuck no,” Ryan confirms, rubbing Michael’s back.

“MP,” Ryan says, pushing Michael away a little so that they can look at each other. “My love for you has nothing to do with the colour of your hair,” he tells him seriously.

Michael bites his lip, reading Ryan’s expression before nodding. Ryan smiles reassuringly. “Now. I hate to ruin the moment, but I’ve gotta be somewhere else tomorrow, so can we make the most of the fact that Conor ran away after dropping me off already?”

Michael nods again, grinning this time. Ryan holds out his hand, but Michael shakes his head and turns away. He dumps the hair dye boxes back in the trash before turning back to Ryan and offering his own hand. “Let’s go,” he encourages.

“Whatever you say, foxy,” Ryan laughs as Michael drags him to the bedroom.


End file.
